Everything We Never Said
by L. Catherine Dion
Summary: After his F-302 crashes during the Antarctic battle against Anubis, Colonel Cameron Mitchell's long and difficult recovery is aided by the unwavering support of Dr. Carolyn Lam, the one doctor who will never give up on him.


**E**_VERYTHING_ **  
N**_EVER_ **S**_AID_  
the backstory they never shared  
BY: YUSAGI & KIT

**D**r. Carolyn Lam remembered that the morning had begun with light snow in Washington, D.C. and a plane trip (more than one, actually) back to McMurdo to face _more_ snow. She hadn't wanted to get on the transport back to D.C. in the first place, not when they had just begun to study some of the more fascinating data pulled from the Ancient Outpost on the viral contagion that had nearly killed off the Ancients. But at the insistence of two generals, three lead scientists, and her own curiosity, she'd found herself with a packed bag in a Washington, D.C. Metro area hotel and then at a small private dinner after nearly eighteen hours travel time. They (the _elusiv_e They) wanted her to head up the Stargate program's medical department - the whole thing, and after a few moments of intense thought, she had told them she would think about it. They said she had the flight back to McMurdo to think it over.

It was cloudy, early morning, when she landed and Lam huddled into her parka, frowning against the blast of icy wind as she was ushered back inside the relative comfort of the base. Her answer had been a delightfully easy _yes_ and took a moment of fiddling to get her tablet hooked up to send the response in before she tossed her coat over her chair and started to go over the data that had been collating in her absence. It seemed like such a _normal_ and boring day to be buried in her work like this, though she was fighting a full blown grin. As much as she enjoyed the research work she'd been doing for the last twenty-two months, the fact that she'd been approached to become the next Chief Medical Officer of Stargate Command blew her away.

"Antony," she called out to her research assistant and fellow virologist, "have you seen the microbial cultures we were sent from P3X-582?"

"What?" Blond-haired Antony Sevallis blinked over his steel framed glasses as he pushed his monitor to the left so he could gawk owlishly at her for a few long moments as he processed the question. "Did we not do that yet? I swear, I ran a _viral_ culture on...oh. That was P3X-992. Sorry. P3X-582's dishes must still be packed. I swear, you go somewhere and the efficiency of this place is no more." He frowned. "I could get Pete to dig them up from cold storage? You will need the suit for looking at it, you know."

She just arched her eyebrows pointedly.

"Right, a-okay, then." Lam stifled a laugh at the awkward way he fumbled for the phone and shook her head. And that was when the alarm sliced through the air.

Anything normal about _this_ day died in an instant.

Five minutes later, Pete, Antony, and Carolyn had ducked outside, the fur of their parkas ruffling in the wind. Lam glanced at the two other scientists and then looked _up_. The sky was on fire and the screaming of alien engines along with rapid bursts of energy weapons. She watched sleek F-302s blaze after Gliders, her eyes wide as her hand came up to keep her hood on. The alarms were still going off as she watched a few F-302s plummet and her voice was raw as she shouted over the noise into her radio.

They needed more than a few medics and they needed them _now_.

* * *

_...Thousands of bright yellow—I don't know. They're coming from the surface. I don't know what they are..._  
_  
They're cutting the enemy fleet to shreds!_

...My God! It's beautiful!

At first, all he can make out are indistinct sounds. Vague sensations of someone...several people in proximity. Through the haze, the battle replayed itself, the blazing heat of the explosion, and the shocking Antarctic cold.  
_  
They're Ancient weapons...It's SG-1._

They found what they were looking for!  
  
When he first woke, the world swam, and if there were anything left in his stomach, it would have ended up across the pair of nurses securing him to the moving platform. He could hear someone speaking...words echoed against the screaming in his ears 'hypothermia' and 'shock'.

He commanded himself to speak, and was lost to Al'kesh flashing by in fast forward again.  
_  
The enemy ships are being destroyed! They're just exploding everywhere we look!_

Conscious thought returned to a group of nurses, speaking his name. His throat was dry enough he though it might seize up if he tried to speak. His head was pounding loudly enough that he had to concentrate to hear what the nurses were asking him. Questions about his rank, his home, his age.

His voice was weak and painful, but his throat did not seize as he'd expected. Not with the one word he managed.

"_Banks_..."

It took her a few seconds to process and another half to try and figure out if she even had _words_. In the end, she said nothing and waved the two nurses away. The silence made her feel a bit better, though the hum of machines still sounded as she sat in the tacky plastic hospital chair that had been dragged next to the bed. It was the color of faded blue jeans and as she sank into it, the damn thing wobbled slightly. There was nothing to say, not really, and he wasn't coherent enough to answer anyway. Lam carefully untwisted the IV line and neatly re-taped it, her fingers precise as she fixed it and did what she could to help.

Her voice was soft and she knew it didn't matter _what_ she said so long as he knew there was someone there. And she _was_. They'd pulled him from the wreckage and the snow and she'd helped put him back together. Her hands knew his injuries and knew how and where and what had to be done to fix them. Now, all she could do was sit and make sure he came though, her fingers resting against is arm is a soft non-verbal '_You're not alone_.'

She stayed far past her shift and into the early hours of the morning, her chin in her hand and her eyes closed, listing forward slightly as sleep threatened. It had been a rough night, a tense one, but the worst was past and she still had no words to make it better, just the careful brush of her fingers and the quiet watchfulness of her presence.

He couldn't say how long it lasted--snatches of consciousness and half-formed, unanswered questions--before there were people. There were report of Banks, of Redmond, and of his squadron. He couldn't say how long it took before he could stay conscious long enough to _think_ about it.

His copilot, and his wing-man. His _friends_.

The doctor was using words he couldn't understand. He made no indication those that he could understood. 'Extensive damage' and 'paralyzed'. He assumed when the silence stretched on, that the doctor had left. He'd memorized the hospital ceiling's patterns, but he continued to stare at them anyway. It was easier than acknowledging the other presence in the room.

It was easier to stare, and to refuse to think, than to accept the burning in his eyes, and the clenching fists at his sides. If he listened to the monotony of the equipment beside him long enough, he could pretend the doctor had never come in at all.

She was always checking on something, always finding excuses, always _staying_. If she had charts, they were done in that godawful blue chair, and today? Today, she was finishing her charting with a pen that was fast losing its ink and her chair wobbled threateningly as she stopped to lean her forehead against the edge of the bed in frustration. It was going to give, eventually, or she was going to just...get a new chair. At the moment, she had to finish her notes on Sgt. Palmer down the hall. She didn't move though, and let herself pause just long enough to breathe.

Lam sat back up a few moments later and finished penning her sentence, fully aware that Mitchell was awake and tense. Eventually, she finished her last chart and set it down on the extra bed in the room. The chair squeaked slightly as she sat back down and carefully placed her hand over his fist.

It hurt to swallow, but it was worth the composure. It saved him more than the one or two frustrated tears that had escaped before the presence in the room made herself known. He chewed his lip, and flickered his gaze briefly toward her. It was the only indication he gave of acknowledging her presence.

Words would only make it worse. Would only make the possibility of never walking again that much more real. After so long...finally finding himself exactly where he wanted to be, it was _over_. No medals or ceremonies would ever make up for that.

He shifted his hand to grip the slim fingers wrapped around his palm. It was the only warmth in the room.

She leaned forward carefully, squeezing his hand gently as she leaned her weight into the edge of the bed. She probably could have said just about anything, but she took her time, sifting through lies and truths before settling. The neck and torso brace she'd helped get him into looked stifling, but it was _necessary_ and he would have to wear it throughout the recovery process.

"I'm not going to help you walk," she finally said, her voice a whisper at his ear. "I'm going to help you _run_."

His grip tightened on hers, and he turned his attention finally from the ceiling to the soft face of the doctor, drawing a small, grateful smile from her determined expression. He didn't say the words--still wouldn't accept the reality of it--but the squeeze of his hand, and the smile was appreciation enough. It was _hope_.

* * *

**"Y**ou sure?" she asked quietly for the second time in the last ten minutes. Lam knew his answer, but she didn't mind repeating the question once more. He was driving everyone else crazy with trying to push himself, but she _got_ it and she'd _promised_, and, if nothing else, he could prove to himself what he was and was not ready for. Sometimes there was nothing left to do by let a patient see exactly what they needed to see and experience before the point was made. Her easy touch found his knee and she offered him a slight smile of encouragement.

The door to the corridor was closed and the fogged glass window made certain his privacy was kept. This was off the record anyway and Lam was pretty sure she'd have had a handful of doctors screaming at her. Frankly, she didn't give a rat's ass. _She_ wasn't going to let him hurt himself, but the longer they delayed him, the greater the risk was that he'd get the hell up _anyway_. Lam really didn't want to find him face down (or worse, sprawled about as awkwardly as a human body could be) on the floor with his leg in about as bad shape as when she'd found him. Or with his neck any more screwed up, That was certainly not the goal.

At all.

So this was going to have to be done and she was going to help, damn the consequences.

He didn't answer, so much as glower. It wasn't this doctor he was irritated at. It was the rest of them, the whole group of nurses and doctors that told him dates and schedules and _safety procedures_. The time was _past_ for safety. He needed to walk...he _had_ to walk. If he tried hard enough, he would stand. Whether the doctors wanted it or not.

Even through whatever painkillers they were filtering into his veins, his legs felt as if every movement was a subsequent knife stabbing into the muscle. Painful as it was, it was _good_. He could _feel_ them, he could move them--though heavily bandaged and splinted. He could _stand_.

He spared a single, determined expression for the doctor as he swung his legs awkwardly over the side of the bed, before pushing himself to his feet.

The agony was immediate. Despite the flood of protests that drew a pained cry, he managed to stay standing for almost one full second. When he went crashing forward, when surprisingly strong arms caught his fall, it wasn't nearly long _enough_.

It took her whole body to keep him from hitting the floor, every extra ounce of gym driven strength and the will to keep him upright further for another second. A little longer, just a little, but not too long. It was back to moving him to the edge of the bed, her teeth grit. She would risk only so much to let him know he needed a little more patience. Lam let out a breath and carefully checked his bandages just in case, then moved to adjust the pain medication in the same motion. No telltale signs of bleeding, no wounds had reopened, and the brace was still properly in place.

She was slightly out of breath, though.

"Next time," she said hoarsely and managed a smile, "two full seconds." Lam carefully worked him back into a comfortable position on the bed and efficiently adjusted the blankets. Her fingers brushed past his cheek on the way to the IV and the slight frown marred her features as she fiddled with the tubing.

"You'll get there," Lam said, her voice soft.

His fingers were sore from clutching the fabric of her coat so tightly. He'd probably stressed and torn seams on her jacket in the struggle to get back into the bed. He bit his cheek to fight down the throbbing in his legs, and screwed his eyes shut with a frustrated groan.

It wasn't _enough_. It would never be _enough_ until he could stand. Until he could walk out, dress in a flight suit, and _fly_ home.

She was speaking again, and the gentle words worked their way through the despair, through his jerking of the bed sheet. The almost-monotone centered his focus from the pain and the endless months stretching ahead enough to still his rocking.

"_Three_ seconds."

* * *

**C**hristmas fell upon them with a heavy winter storm Lam barely noticed. Her arms were busy wrestling with a bag and the tray of food she'd intercepted in the hallway. Outside the wind was howling, the sound eerily high pitched, but she was trying her best to suppress the smile that had somehow managed to hang in her eyes and was fighting to slide across her lips. The bag found its way to the other bed, the tray to its proper table. No one noticed the fact that she'd snagged enough for two with an extra blue Jell-O (this, in addition to two brownies) on the side. With a sort of triumphant flourish, she produced a neatly wrapped box.

"Not only did I manage to snag lunch," she said, then frowned. "It's too early for lunch, but still. It's lunch...." Lam lost her train of thought and simply sat with a serious expression.

He couldn't miss the approach and arrival of Christmas. The hospital had been playing the same cheery carols all month. A tree had sprung up in his room, and he only vaguely recalled waking up in the the middle of the night to see the doctor adjusting its decorations. SG-1 had come by to present him a Medal of Honor. The team had offered awkward gratitude, and Brigadier General O'Neill had offered him any position once he'd recovered.

His grandmother had given him a fruitcake.

When the doctor arrived--the one who had been his constant companion since the ordeal began, he managed a smile for the season. "Christmas brunch." His voice was stronger now, clear of the damage the crash and hypothermia had rendered.

He pointed up at her tray, pushing himself up to a sitting position despite the jolts of pain from his legs. "Is that Jell-O?"

"Lots of Jell-O," she murmured. "I thought brunch was appropriate...I just couldn't remember the _word_." Lam found the chair (which hadn't been fixed and probably never _would_ be fixed) and noted that it actually made her overcorrect as sat and popped open the plastic tops. The Jell-O shuddered and jiggled away almost merrily and she'd forgotten her coffee somewhere, but it didn't matter.

What mattered was a neatly wrapped present, some Jell-O, and getting a smile on the right face.

It felt like it had been _years_ since he'd had Jell-O. Just the proximity was enough to warm his smile into something..._normal_. That she'd brought it, directed the smile toward the doctor, rather than the gelatin. He reached out for a container of the red one, and offered her a small smile. "D'you want some fruitcake? Gramma makes it best."

"Considering the last time I had fruitcake I was five," she began, "I suppose it couldn't hurt to try it. Mind you when I was five, I took out my father's _foot_ with that fruitcake." That was a good smile, just the kind she'd been hoping to coax out of him, and it pleased her far more than fruitcake (dubious as she was about the cake that wasn't fruit _or_ cake and probably helped sink the _Titanic_).

"Well...as long as you don't hit me with it." He shrugged, and offered her the plate with the cake in exchange for the Jell-O. The _Jell-O. _For a few moments, when digging into the red stuff, and taking the first bite, he could have almost forgotten the doctor was even there.

How'd he managed two months without Jell-O, he was no longer certain.

He glanced up at the doctor once his awareness returned. "It's good. The fruitcake."

"Jell-O's better," she said wryly, but took a small wedge of cake anyway. It took her a moment of desperately keeping her face clear of anything but curiosity, but she managed to get the cake down. It wasn't _horrible_, just heavy and quite possibly the hardest thing known to man besides diamonds. Okay, so, that was exaggerating. She sat with her hands folded in her lap a-top the present until she could find something close to coherence.

"That was interesting," was the only thing that made it out along with the softly added, "I think Jell-O wins, though, no offense to Gramma."

He pointed with his hospital issue fork. "That's only cos you haven't had her Jell-O fruitcake." He offered her a small smile. Today was a _good_ day. Christmas was always a good day. He had nothing to give her in exchange for the wrapped present in her lap.

"There's more Jell-O."

"I can always steal more," she said, laughing, but she carefully pried the lid off a blue Jell-O, "if we need it." Her fingers carefully nudged the box onto the bed, then moved it within reach. "Merry Christmas?" she offered tentatively.

The gloss of the package was smoother in his hands than he remembered. He glanced at her briefly for confirmation, before ripping the wrapping open, and pulling out the box. He could guess what it might have held before he pulled off the lid, but he kept the soft smile to himself until he could see the pair of black running shoes.

The grateful smiles were becoming second nature. "I don't have anything to offer but the fruitcake."

"You don't need anything to offer," Lam said quietly, her smile lighting her face. "You've two feet for shoes and enough determination to get yourself to the point where you can _use_ those shoes properly. I think that's all that needs to be offered." She took a bite of Jell-O to stop the fact that her throat had suddenly tightened and her eyes had tried to water. If she had to, she'd spend every waking moment seeing to it. Lam knew she was close to doing that anyway, but it would be worth it to see him _run_.

He had a goal now, a purpose, motivation, and someone who wasn't going to give up trying--even if he did. He _would_ stand. He would walk, he would run, and then he would join SG-1. It all started today.

He reached over toward the hand closest to his, and offered a slim smile. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

**N**oon, or shortly thereafter, was something she found herself looking forward to -- especially _that_ particular noon. It wasn't going to be particularly _pleasant_, but Mitchell would be where he'd wanted to be since probably the first time he'd had his wits about him. Lam twisted her hair back into a ponytail and snugged it tight, her expression serious and determined as if she were the one who was undergoing therapy instead of him. She stood at the foot of his bed, tugging her white lab coat straight, her eyes on him.

"Time to go," she said in the soft voice she always used. The only difference today was the quiet steel that infused her tone and the tight way she crossed her arms.

It was finally the day he'd been _fighting_ for. A chance to _try_ to stand. It felt good to finally be free of their constant protests--to do something for _himself_. Just another step to getting _out_ of the hospital, and back where he belonged.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, impatient to get started, and pushed himself to his feet. His legs immediately buckled in the spasm of pain that the motion caused, but he caught himself on the railing of the bed. They'd spoken of wheelchairs to get to their gym. He wasn't sure he was ready for one of those.

Lam didn't rush forward, nor did she help him. If he wanted to be stubborn about this, it was his call, but she _watched_ carefully, and the empty wheelchair sat there locked in position. Her fingers tightened when his knees gave, but she didn't move. Lam was there to make sure he didn't kill himself and she _knew_ he was going to be stupid about it. And this just proved it.

"I know you want to get out of this room," she finally said, "but at this rate, your therapist is going to be eighty before you get there." Lam closed the distance between them and locked eyes with him. "You'll heal better and _faster_ if you use the wheelchair for the first few times."

Her smile was sharply wry.

"I promise, you won't have to use it for long," she added.

He barely glanced toward the wheelchair, even when she indicated it. "There has to be another way." He'd lain around so long, he could not just..._sit_, and be led around. Even if it meant an hour of therapy.

"Would you rather I hauled it all in _here_?" she asked pointedly. "Because I will go out there right _now_ and tell Nolan we're taking as much of his equipment and dragging it in here as we can manage. We, being me, because if we do that...she's not going to help and I'm going to wind up overseeing that part of your recovery, too." Her fingertips touched his cheek just once and her expression was serious.

"If you keep this up," she murmured in a low voice, "you'll be setting yourself back, not pushing forward."

His fingers flexed on the bars in frustration, and he stared in stubborn silence for a long few moments. She spoke sense, but what sense had his life made since the crash? It was galling. He frowned, and glanced toward the chair with a sigh.

He reached out to grip her wrist with one hand, and gave an imperceptible nod.

She tilted her chin slightly, an almost-apology, and let him lean when he needed to, always ready to support as much of his weight as he would let her. Lam carefully lay her fingers against his knuckles for a half second as they moved toward the chair. He was doing better than expected, but she knew that was _all_ him. It wouldn't matter if they did hydrotherapy or strength training, or a combination of things. Cameron Mitchell was always the deciding factor, and despite his tendency to be stubborn to the point of absurdity, there were moments when he did _listen_.

Standing was all well and good, but sitting was by _far_ more painful -- as least the getting down part was. Lam unhooked the IV drip that was managing the pain meds (which she had begun to slowly dial back over the last few weeks) and made sure it was still dripping right, then hung it on the pole attached to the back of the wheelchair. They had time enough to let him get used to sitting for a moment as she checked and rechecked to make sure his lines were clear and that moving wasn't going to be a problem.

Focusing on the pain distracted him from the frustration and the indignity of it, but it did not make it all go away. He'd learned how little it really made go away over the months he'd been here already. Still, it was enough to keep going.

He watched the doctor as she worked, steeling himself for what was to come, before offering a ghost of his grateful smile--tempered as it was by the situation. This--all of it--_would_ be worthwhile. There was at least one doctor who would make sure of it.

* * *

**S**pring was crisp but not too cold and she shrugged into a deep Navy blue knit jacket, tying the belt with nimble fingers before snagging a coat Mitchell's mother had dropped off about a week prior. It was a lightweight flying jacket, deep rusty brown, something she'd noted absently as she draped it over her arm and wandered through the door of his room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Jailbreak," Lam said dryly. "We're going for an honest-to-God walk." She half tossed the coat at him, a quirk of a smile touching the corners of her lips. "You better believe I pulled strings for this," she added. And she _had_. In fact, she'd gone to bat just to get him a few hours out of the sterile bright white facility walls. "So if you don't behave," she shook a black running shoe at him, the red sole flashing as she teased him, "I'm going to wind up somewhere very unpleasant for a few weeks."

He was not ashamed to have been looking forward to now, since he'd heard about the walk. It would be the first time he'd stepped outside since the crash. Strictly speaking, since he'd gotten the orders to suit up and head out to engage Anubis' forces. He wasn't certain that the running shoes were really best before he could even walk properly--but he had nothing else to swap them out for.

The pain that came from standing was familiar now. It was just another pattern in the day, as he held out the hand not supported on the railing for the jacket and shoes. "Thought this _was_ an unpleasant place?"

"I can think of a few things that make it tolerable," she murmured. "Jell-O might be one of them." She undid the laces and loosened them quickly before placing the right shoe within his reach, and did the same for the left. The coat found its way a few inches away from the shoes, precisely placed as if by lining everything up the day itself would go smoothly. Surgical precision, her grandfather always said, found its way into every aspect of a surgeon's life. Order out of chaos was her motto and always had been. A small smile grew and her fingers fell against a long knit tie.

The only help she gave him was that apparently absent loosening of the laces. As always, she let him lead while she offered goals to be met at every turn.

It was a challenge in of itself to maneuver properly to put _on_ the shoes and jacket. The effort was worth managing it himself, and to his knowledge it didn't take _incredibly_ longer than it would have anyway. He nodded, to the doctor, waiting for the crutches. "Then it'd be a place without Jell-O."

Discussion made the wait easier.

"Grocery stores live on the outside to make a place without Jell-O a place _with_ Jell-O," she said, placing the crutches just _slightly_ out of reach. "But then, they might send me somewhere without grocery stores and then I'm pretty sure I'd be miserable." She affected a slight pout that went nowhere in particular. McMurdo had most definitely been remote, but there was still morale boosting Jell-O. She absolutely _did not_ praise him for the work he'd done with the shoes and the jacket because a) it'd make him feel like a moron and b) make her feel like she was patronizing him, neither of which she particularly wanted. All he got was a smile, the same one she gave him when she checked his vitals and made sure his pain medicine was in order. Now there was no IV and he got pills when he absolutely needed them.

For now, the pain was good and much more familiar as they worked on getting him used to it and weaned him off the harder painkillers. Lam studied him for awhile and nodded just the once.

"I don't anticipate needing to relocate, though," she said, holding back the soft laughter that wanted to slip out.

The distance required a shuffle to reach the crutches, but he managed to snatch them without collapsing first. That was a good thing. If it were up to him, he would have attempted the entire walk without the crutches at all--but he doubted they would make it past the doctor-guards.

For now, crutches would have to do. Anything to get outside. The wind would be the closest thing to _flying_ since Antarctica. It felt like a lifetime.

It was a slow walk down the corridor and eyes were everywhere, riveted to them both. She talked quietly about the weather and the cloudy Spring sky that had just a hint of gray to it. Her own eyes touched on a paused nurse or a curious doctor and sent them back to work. Lam nudged the glass side door open and leaned back on it like it was no big deal, maybe like she was waiting for the cool breeze to clear out the stuffy heat of the building. The wind had just enough speed to it to whip her hair into her eyes and she neatly tucked it back behind an ear as she watched his progress.

"Ramp or stairs?" she asked, gesturing to the three steps down.

He chose to ignore the stares--for whatever reason they might have been watching--as his father had always ignored them. He'd wanted to emulate his father, but he'd never quite expected that he would have to overcome something so similar. The doctor's choice could not be ignored, however.

Neither option would be particularly easy. In the end, he spared her a brief, determined look, and made his way toward the stairs. He was not in a wheelchair. As long as he still had legs, he was going to use the stairs. Even if that meant he would have to take a risk in so doing it. Taking risks was part of his job profile.

There were a few tense moments in his journey down, but disaster was averted, and the breeze through his hair and across his face was second only to if he'd been given an F-302 to fly for the day.

"S'Nice out."

"Not too cold, just the right amount of wind, and not too sunny," she said. "I was waiting for a day like this. I think it's better than just sunshine." She turned back to him and smiled. It came out clear and bright and for just a moment it changed the distinct professionalism of her face. "Left or right? There's a park to your left and the waterfront is to the right." In the distance a truck rumbled past and the sound of a 747 screamed overhead on its way in to the airport. When the sounds died down, there was nothing left but the rustle of leaves and soft bird calls. Every once and awhile the distant chatter of people (some patients and visitors, some not) sounded and there was a soft rush of traffic. It was refreshingly _normal_ and she could almost pretend she was simply going out for coffee, something mundane and quiet. Something that didn't involve F-302 pilots and the memory of an alien invasion very nearly _not_ averted.

But this was as normal as it was ever likely to get.

Down toward the waterfront there was a hot dog stand that sold soft thickly salted pretzels and hot mustard. The man who ran the cart seemed ancient and his eyes were gray-green like weathered sea glass. He didn't look like his name was Sean, but that was exactly what it was. From the bottom of the steps she could see the flash of the red ketchup bottle and the bright flash of grill-fire. As the wind changed, the scent of toasting buns and the sharper scent of cooking franks hit the air.

His coffee wasn't half bad, either.

In the choice between a park and the waterfront, his decision was made without the need for thought. The sound of the 747 distracted him momentarily from the rest of the surrounding area. His gaze stayed on the spot where the plane vanished in the clouds for what had to be almost a full minute.

Only the shifting air, and the scent of _hot dogs_ brought his attention forward once more, and just meant her answer came in the form of a healthy--somewhat mischievous--smile, and a quicker pace down the pathway. "You smell that? I haven't smelled that since Summer."

It made him wonder why he'd neglected the food before the crash. It also made him hope there was chili. The walk was probably longer than she'd initially intended, and his legs made that very apparent, but the discomfort was worthwhile, and he was not nearly ready to return to the room just yet.

He stopped to frown when they were only a short distance from the call of the hot-dogs. "...I don't think I have my credit card in this suit."

Much as it should have been obvious from the start, the sudden realization lessened the feel of the sunshine and the touch of promised rain in the air.

"My treat," she said, fingertips resting on his shoulder before they fixed the collar of his jacket where it had turned under just the tiniest bit. It was instinctive, really, and she told herself as much at least twice. "_This_ time. Next time, you can get me a perfect cup of coffee." Her hands dropped back to her side as Sean's deep Brooklyn lined accent boomed out.

"Carolyn!" he called. "Bring me a friend, have you? Best dogs in town. Best maybe anywhere, at least on the street. Need a bench to park it?" He pointed a little further down where there was arguably the best view of the water. "I like it down there."

Carolyn was a nice name for the doctor. It held her softness well. He offered the hot dog man his friendliest smile--and he had quite a bit saved up, with his relative lack of social activity since the crash. "Do you have chili dogs?"

It was probably everything the hospital doctors _didn't_ want him eating.

"I got chili dogs, chili cheese dogs, plain ol' dogs, and just about anything in my cart you could ever hope for," Sean said, already pulling things up. "And I know what _she_ wants."

"Do you?" Lam asked, her smile flashing amusement across her features. "What do I want?"

"You want what he's having," he said, laughing as she immediately crossed her arms. "Yup. I _thought_ so. So. Two chili dogs, you wanna make that cheese? No charge for the extras. Onions, relish...whatever you want. Go on. They can't letcha out of that place just for nuthin'. Coffee, too, hey?"

He was amazing to watch and, at times, it looked like he had eight arms with the amount of flinging he was doing. Dogs on the grill, chili pot on the cooker, buns toasting, trays readied with their wax paper lining in their little plastic baskets -- and all while he was chatting up a storm.

When presented the choice of _anything_, the only thing that prevented him acting on the impulse to say _everything_, was the fact that it would be difficult enough to carry a chili dog with crutches, and losing his dog would defeat the purpose.

He chewed his bottom lip in thought for a moment, before nodding toward the condiments. "Just cheese and onions this time." Although, he wouldn't have said no to coffee, too, if he'd been the one paying.

"Cheese an onions, onions an cheese," Sean hummed, poking at the dogs as they cooked and laying out the toasted buns in their baskets. His eyes flicked up to settle on Lam and Mitchell before they were back to the hot dogs. "Just out for a walk then? Good day for it. Might get a little drizzle, s'why I got me an um-brella."

"Yeah, Sean," Lam murmured. "Just out for a walk."

"Got a spare um-brella if you need it. I give it another ten odd minutes before something starts coming down," he offered. "Prolly not such a good idea to run around in the rain."

"Depends on the rain," she said, laughing as he passed her the dogs.

"Carolyn, Carolyn. You need coffee. Onna house. I gots more coffee than I'm gonna sell in the next hour. Don't take much to make anyway." She protested softly but he filled a cup and both sweetened and creamed it the way she liked before she could do more than wave. "You look like maybe you should have some, too." Sean's eyes flicked from Lam's face to Mitchell's and back again. "Coffee ain't gonna kill him is it?"

"No, it's not going to kill him," she said, stifling laughter as she paid him the total, which for two fat dogs loaded with chili and free coffee was pretty much the most inexpensive meal she'd had in a week.

"So," Sean said, gesturing with the bottle of hot mustard, "coffee or no coffee?"

He hesitated for a moment, given the fact that his hands were taken up by the crutches, and Doctor Carolyn's with the hot dogs. The fact that both were immediately obvious, and that the hospital coffee might have been blended with dirt, eventually prodded him into nodding. "Coffee doesn't sound half bad."

Frankly, if it did start raining, he wasn't certain whether he really wanted an umbrella.

"Good," Sean said brightly. "Go sit. I ain't so old I can't bring coffees." He had relinquished the mustard bottle for the pot of coffee before _coffee_ was out of Mitchell's mouth and snugged the cups into a carrier before snatching the dogs from Lam's hands and carefully setting it all up. "Shoo. Get settled, enjoy the water, an if you git rained on, enjoy that too. Cept you best eat fast if that's yer plan."

Lam mumbled a soft protest and Sean gave her a sharp look. He could balance just about anything, it seemed. She moved easily, not too slow, but right about Mitchell's speed, and with a slight sigh as Sean set down the carrier and looked pleased with himself, she sank down against the bench.

"You have a _good_ meal," he said, beaming bright enough to blind. "And don't let that food there get rained on. Be unfortunate, that."

The view _was_ great. He regretted that the window in his room pointed toward nothing but road. He paused long enough to offer her another grateful smile, before taking a bite of the chili dog. It was among those rare foods that tasted just as good as it smelled. The coffee was good, too. Wasn't instant, but it was just about as good as any brewed coffee he could think of. The food, the breeze, and the view restored a portion of cheer that the hospital stifled at the best of times.

"_Told_ you today'd be a good day, Doctor."

"Today was always going to be a good day, Colonel," she said, and laughed as she caught a chili bean as it tried to escape. "One way or another, it was supposed to be good." Lam leaned back against the slatted bench and ate her chili dog as neatly as possible, quickly too, as if wasting time was something she wasn't at all used to doing.

It was the coffee, however, that she took her time with and every line of her body seemed to soften. She could afford a little relaxation, couldn't she? Not...tons, but just enough. If she could listen to the gulls cry and the soft lapping of the water, without fear of her pager going off, it'd be even better.

She closed her eyes for a second, her fingers sliding around the paper cup.

"It's definitely a good day," she said.

If he'd had an audience that were not such avid chili dog fans, the speed of his consumption of the chili dog might have been somewhat embarrassing. Potentially. As it was, it might as well have been a competition to see who could eat the most while spilling the least. He was fairly certain it was close to a tie.

Once the hot dog was finished, he was in no hurry to return back to the hospital. The day was the best he'd seen since Autumn--and while that was nothing new, it _felt_ as if winter had lasted a year. There was something...monumental about this Spring day, as if it were the first day of Spring. As if as long as they sat out here on the bench, on the edge of rain, there were no crutches, and no year of therapy ahead. It was just...free, clean air, and the sound of a passenger jet in the sky.

The sight of it brought a small smile to his face, as he watched it go by. "Yeah. Not a bad day at all."

Lam cradled her cup to her chest for a moment and breathed the cool air in as the first tiny drops of rain came down. It was so light she wasn't even sure it was raining at all until it beaded on the white plastic lid of her coffee. She tipped her face skyward, letting her head fall back to watch the darkening clouds as they gathered to thicken into thunderheads. But it was just drizzle.

He'd made it pretty far (and so had she) and that he had made her extremely proud of him on one level. On another, the fact that he'd come as far as he had meant that every step she took with him was _vital_. She supposed no one exactly understood him and what he needed to motivate him positively. Lam smiled into the rain.

"I always did like a good drizzle," she murmured in a voice that was almost sleepy.

He couldn't help a slight grin, taking a sip of the coffee and settling back against the bench. It was peaceful. The closest thing to normality he'd felt since Banks' body had been discovered. Moments like these, he realized, must have been what'd really kept his father going, those early years.

Moments like these probably _still_ kept him going.

His free hand reached out to give hers a squeeze--it was second nature now, like the smiles. The hand was _always_ there. The times it wasn't, he still half expected it to be. The rain was closer to a mist, in his estimation, but it was still the perfect accent to the afternoon.

"Nothin' like one." He glanced over toward her, and offered a smile that today felt much easier than it had the day before.

She linked her fingers with his absently, her hand small in his as she took another sip of coffee and shifted slightly so the wind wouldn't keep blowing her hair into her face. It had the side effect of nearly tucking her against his side. It wasn't a big bench to begin with, but she didn't mind. There was something inherently comfortable about the space they shared. Lam put down her coffee when he smiled and the tips of her fingers found his lips briefly.

"That looks much better today, too," she whispered, her own smile soft and warm.

His smile reflexively softened to match hers, and the rain strengthened to a legitimate shower to compensate. She made a good picture in the rain, with her cup of coffee and crisp coat. The crutches were resting in the opposite direction, and the moment was downright _cozy_, despite the rain and the chill that crept through his jacket.

"It does look good today."

"You're getting wet," she murmured, not really paying attention to the rain at all, even as her fingers settled on his cheek. "Might think about going back in." Lam didn't _want_ to go back inside, though. In fact, she was in no particular hurry at all, despite the fact that her knit coat was going to be positively soaked.

"Little rain's not so bad." He had plenty of rain to make up for, considering how long he'd been dry and hospital-clean. The longer he spent in the rain, the longer it would be before he'd have to use the crutches again, and navigate back to the room. He wasn't certain how motivated he'd be to return to the sterile hospital cell.

"It won't hurt," she said quietly, her smile widening slightly before it faltered. Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone. "I'm not looking forward to going back, either." She wasn't looking forward to his pain, nor the crisp white walls and the hospital smell in the air. The deep earthy scent of rain soaked soil permeated the air.

"It's too...perfect out here."

He risked placing the cup on the bench, to reach up and touch the hand at his cheek. He'd missed the smell of fresh rain, the sounds of passing cars...anything to break up the easy, repetitive tunes that filled the silence of the hospital hallways. The company...was the most appropriate he could have chosen.

"It's a good perfect." Unlike the arguable perfection of the hospital.

"It's messy," she whispered. "Messy and _alive_." It was the furthest thing from the carefully constructed, artificial, blankness that was the hospital. As much as she loved her job and her tools and the way she could make sense out of everything _in_ her world, it didn't come close to _this_. And _this_ was the way it was supposed to be. All the messy parts she'd put back together, all the fighting, all the _watching_ -- it fell into a random order where times and events weren't precise, but it was order nonetheless.

It was messy and it was life and she watched the rain trickle down his cheeks and over their hands. She was too close to him, too comfortable, too _wet_ to care if the rain came down any harder. Lam could have pulled away, but didn't.

"Mostly alive," she said and there was a slight hitch in her voice.

She was too close, but the proximity didn't register the same way it should have. She was _always_ close. The bench was small, the conversation was easy. It didn't matter so much. His smile was almost absent, as he gave a soft chuckle.

"Alive is good."

It wasn't the rain that had worked its way down her neck in trickles that made her shiver, it was his ghost of a smile. Lam wanted to pull the right one back up, the one she rarely saw. It was her job to keep him alive, but it was _more_ than that. Somehow, he'd ceased being a job, a case, a number in the database. Somewhere along the line everything had changed, though she struggled with objectivity and did her best to project professionalism. Lam couldn't even pinpoint the _when_, but it had.

She was pretty much failing the professionalism at the moment, though, because her lips were very nearly brushing his.

"Always good," she said, her voice soft.

Somewhere along the way, the conversation had all but derailed. No...it'd _definitely_ derailed. Despite this, he couldn't particularly complain about it. It wasn't so bad at all. Much preferable to the hospital walls, and the forced space they created. The mess, the proximity, it was good. The rain was strengthening, but it, too, barely registered. Anything beyond Doctor Carolyn was an unfocused haze.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," she echoed absently, her thumb sweeping gently across his bottom lip, the touch hesitant and light as her fingertips found his jawline. Too close. _So_ close. "It's _better_," she said minutely. "It will all get better, all of it...everything..."

His expression twitched to a vague smile. Her voice was a perfect complement to the sound of the rain on the pavement and the bench. _What_ she said didn't matter so much as that she _was_ speaking. She was close enough he could _feel_ every syllable. It was...soothing.

"I know."

Her other hand came up to cup his cheek and her eyes flicked to his, searching how how much of it he actually believed, but he was hard to read, even like this. She made a soft sound, a quiet one, and might have whispered his name as her fingers grazed his temple. _She_ knew the frustration, she could see it, _she_ knew the feeling of helplessness too (sitting up during those early bad nights when she found herself counting beats in her sleep only to jerk awake moments later). It wouldn't go away, but it would get better.

"I fixed your leg," she mumbled, "saw how everything fit. I knew," Lam's voice was faint, curling around the words, "I _know_ how this will go. You'll run and you'll fly. I put the pieces back together so you could _fly_. And you will." Lam paused. "Won't settle for anything less."

Her words had increased. Gone from one or two to long, almost rambling sentences designed to reassure, rather than converse. Today was about _normality_, not reassurance and reminders of all the work ahead. It was a reprieve from everything. That meant, if he were as familiar with her as he believed, she must have been nervous in some way.

Being the rash, hot-headed one, he was really the only one who could end the stalemate without over-thinking the situation into oblivion. Given that privilege, it didn't seem wrong at all to lean closer just that amount his legs would allow, and prevent her saying something nonsensical and potentially embarrassing. Sparing her that might even have been an obligation, but her slight warmth was perfect counterpart to the chill of the Spring afternoon.

Lam was always careful, even when exceedingly nervous (which, arguably, she had been since about half way through lunch), so when she met him more than half way across the rest of that minuscule distance, she did so with the utmost care. Her lips brushed his tentatively, almost awkwardly, before she kissed him slowly. The doctor in her processed angles and degrees, assessed the tilt of his chin, the risks, and the complications. The rest of her processed dampness, the slide of rain across their skin, the crisp-cool taste of the rain, the heat of his lips, and the way, for that moment in time, she felt _centered_.

This was beyond not professional. A soft sound escaped and she tried to ignore the rush of heat that traveled down her spine and seemed to explode. Not at all professional. God, was it so completely _not_. Her fingers carefully supported his neck, so careful, as careful as the kiss itself was soft and unexpectedly _sweet._

There was a good reason he was rash--ninety percent of the time, his impatience worked out well. He was counting this time as a part of that ninety percent. The hand covering hers relinquished its grip in favor of catching her jaw, and the strands of damp hair that had fallen along it. _This_ was an afternoon worth continuing treatment for. Whether or not it really mattered whether his companion doctor was perfectly professional was arguable. Today, he was of the opinion that casual was far superior.

She was as careful as he was determined, and the sound--felt more than heard--drew what genuine smile their position allowed, and emboldened his previous determination. The vague protest his legs gave at shifting his seat was more than worth furthering his attempt to better witness the young doctor as _Carolyn, _professionalism aside.

All her alarms (every last one) had all gone off at once and she was _ignoring_ them. Lam had plenty of rational part of her brain, but she was pretty sure he'd completely disarmed them while she was busy with other matters. Lots of other matters. Matters that she didn't care about _at the moment_. He drew her in and she fell, not _physically_, but it was hard and soft and indescribable. She wasn't sure she could put a name to it, only that she found herself kissing him with an intensity that took her breath away.

She had to steady herself against the back of the bench with three fingers, swept up in the dizzying, heady rush of complete and utter _madness_. This wasn't even supposed to happen. Every block she'd put up was gone. Every last one. Gone. His hands felt perfect right where they were, the heat of them warming skin that was already probably blazing. This would be a moment to freeze, she thought hazily. This moment.

And she couldn't pull away, she couldn't have pulled away from him if her life actually depended on it.

It _was_ the moment to break away and seize some sort of heat-of-the-moment excuse, but he was still pretty clear on the idea that this had _not_ been an accidental thing, and he saw no reason to pretend otherwise. If this was Doctor Carolyn without her doctor, he liked her more without it. It would have been a perfect situation, had he full maneuverability. Limited as he was, it was _still_ the highlight of quite a few months.

She tasted of chili dog, coffee, and rain. The combination was not one he would have expect to work out so _well_. His free arm provided the leverage his legs could not, and allowed him to push further--to make up for months in an empty white room. Carolyn's apparent loss of professionalism--of _control_--was far more therapeutic than any of the countless psychologists and grief counselors they'd brought in to check on him had been. He wasn't even vaguely surprised that this particular doctor would find a way to make something so unorthodox medicinal.

Probably because, at the end of the day, it was an _excellent_ excuse to do just about anything but break away.

She found just the right spaces to bring herself closer; a slight precise twist of her shoulders there, a hand placed _just so_, her fingers buried neatly against his hair, and she forgot who she was, _where_ she was as the rain trickled down her back and her heart caught in her throat, hard and fast, each beat threatening to shatter every preconcieved notion she'd ever had about _everything_. It wasn't as much about kissing him as it was about letting go, but then, it _was_ about kissing him. Firm to soft to sharp to dark and deep, it was a conversation in itself, punctuated by stifled sounds she kept as far down as she could.

How long? How long had it been since she'd let go? Since Charlie at John Hopkins, since the accident that had taken him and left her with only bruises? The rain was cool and sweet. It tasted of the mountains just as surely as Cameron Mitchell tasted of the high, cool winds, blue endless sky, the slight hint of metal, and the roar of a jet engine. How could she not want _more_? Almost. It was almost _indecent_ the way her lips burned and she buried his name into another kiss, buried it down while her heart crashed and burned in this singular moment.

She was afraid at the intensity, startled by it, and like few perfectly clear moments in her life, it was something that no matter what happened, she would remember in all its vividness.

It was as if every move--every shifted angle, and every ounce of pain each further advancement caused, brought to light another unexplored, unknown facet of the doctor--of _Carolyn_'s true personality. No matter what might come of this moment, what damage the awkward twisting might cause, it was more than worthwhile for _this_.

Her voice--words coherent and incoherent--her intensity, it washed from his memory all the months of torment and frustration. Brushed away future challenges, and very nearly--perhaps only moments away in the making--drove away any thought beyond _there _and _then_. This wasn't just one of ninety-percent _good_ outcomes. This was one of those rare moments of accidental _brilliance_.

His fingers slid from jaw to shoulder blade, to pull the moment _closer_, stronger. It was not a moment he was anywhere near ready to end yet--and there were quite a few ways yet he could think to prolong it as much as possible.

* * *

**T**here was no point of reference for any of this. Inside, after the rain, after _two days_ of rain, she sat at the foot of his bed, cross legged, folding tiny F-302s to kill time. Her rounds were finished and Mitchell was due back from physiotherapy soon. They had told her, the administrators (again, the elusive They), that she needed to focus on other patients (not like she _wasn't_ doing her job), and had stepped up her surgical cases to make sure she complied.

Her afternoon and now into evening had been spent putting a marine back together and exhaustion rolled across her like a weight. Her patient had barely made it through the extensive procedure, but she was fairly certain she'd repaired most of the spinal cord damage that she could. Lam was seriously afraid that the Private really wasn't going to walk again. The shrapnel from some sort of incendiary device had done so much damage that her surgery had nearly required the hands of another, fresher surgeon. She'd won, though, in the end.

Her fingers ached and she set the tiny fleet of F-302s in formation on the nightstand before massaging the knots out of her hands the best she could. Her arms were tense, her back ached, but it was worth it. It was _always_ worth it. Lam left her lab coat draped across the rocking chair in the corner (his mother, again, had brought it ostensibly for sitting on the Wednesdays she could make it in - they made time, they always did) and tugged hre hair free of its ponytail. It was mussed from the surgical hair net, almost frizzed, and teased as she let her face sink into her hands.

Critical condition, sure, but she'd _won_ anyway.

He hadn't seen her as often. While she had been almost constant companion for the first few months, now when he woke, she was gone _almost_ as often as she was there. He understood why--that the hospital staff no longer trusted her judgment ever since the day they'd spent hours in the chill and the rain. It hadn't made him regret a moment of the day, but it _had_ succeeded in making him more irritable when the physiotherapist insisted on coddling him like a child.

He'd shooed away the nurse leading him back to his room just about as soon as she could be convinced he'd limp back to his room, and hang up his own crutches. Today was a good day--Carolyn was already back, by the time he arrived.

He gave a tired smile, and made his way over to where she was seated--leaning down somewhat awkwardly to press a quick kiss to her hair. "You look exhausted, Carolyn."

"Long surgery," she murmured, voice cracking slightly as her fingers brushed his cheek. She had a soft, easy smile lit for him; it was the one no one else ever got. "I won." She didn't lose many patients, but it was always a game. Life and her skills against death. Lam studied him through the haze and noted he looked good, tired, but _good_.

"Six hours of surgery," she said absently. "Spinal trauma. Guess I'm the only one around here they trust for the delicate work these days." She shifted and lay back, her hair spilling across the blue hospital blanket as she stared at the ceiling and then up at him before patting the bed. Her wry smile wasn't lost.

He frowned, struggling to sit down properly. "They're working you harder than me." He shrugged the crutches off to the side of the bed, reaching over instead, to take her hand. "I'm going to complain to the hospital...warden. Director. I'm the one undergoing physiotherapy, here. If you're getting more exercise than me, they're doin' something _wrong_."

When he applied for a position on SG-1--to be taken once recovered--he'd been given top security clearance. It was probably higher than the Doctors' here, and that meant he probably had a bit more clout than them--if he really tried.

"Mmmn," was not much of a response, but she laced her fingers through his, unwilling to move from her inelegant sprawl. "Surgeries wait for no one. I nearly had to ask for someone else to finish, but we got lucky. Digging around and fixing the worst trauma cases is what I _do_, Cameron. No complaining. I hear you're giving Pat Nolan a hard time. I'm sure she's thrilled." Lam's thumb brushed against his absently as she rolled her head to glance at him for a few moments.

"You're sitting better," she murmured. "Looks like physio's still doing what it's supposed to do. They still have you in the pool?" It was semi-mindless, seeing as she could recite his day better than she knew her own.

He made a frustrated sound, and shifted to a better lounge. It was compromise enough between the dignity of sitting, and the relative painlessness of lying down. "Nolan's never going to move on from the pool. She's paranoid if she screws up, she'll lose her job." He frowned, and squeezed the hand touching his. "There are other surgeons in this hospital."

He refused to believe there had been no critical conditions until Spring. He gave her a significant frown. "I'll start blockading the door at night if they don't cut back."

"They transferred two out," she mumbled, shifting her position with a soft burr of a frown. "Schedule shuffles, personnel reassignment," she flicked her fingers. "Things happen. Like Spring rain..." Her eyes closed and a slightly lazy smile washed across her face. "Apparently, I've lost my objectivity."

She drew in a slow breath. Her ribs ached slightly from bending over the operating table, but it was a good ache in its own way.

"I'll have a word with Nolan about the pool. _She_ still listens to me," Lam said in a sleepy voice, then mumbled softly, "I'd barricade the door right now, if I had any energy left. Good thing they stopped checking on you every hour, mn?"

His frown deepened, and he reached over with the arm not supporting his weight, to brush stray locks of hair from her face. "I don't _want_ objectivity. I don't need another blank face and _coddling_, Carolyn. M'not interested in a fabricated shadow to make me _feel better_."

He smoothed a hand across her forehead, and his frown faded to a soft, reassuring smile. "Get some rest. They can't demand you go out and do more work if you're asleep."

"You react to coddling like sulfur to water," she said, not reacting to his flaring temper at all. "You'd think they would have figured that out by now." Lam knew she was pretty much the only one who didn't just hand him things, that she made him earn every step. She shifted again, curling onto her side, lips brushing his shoulder.

"I thought sleep was for the weak," she said, but her soft laughter chased the words down. "Beg to differ on that demand. They'd get me up out of a dead sleep if there was need." Her fingers fell absently against his chest. Objectivity. Yeah. She was beginning to hate that word. "They forget I'm a consultant, I guess. I remind them very quietly. I suppose it takes a certain finesse to deal with the politics, anyway." She hated politics, but dealt well with the red tape, a trait she supposed came from her father.

"Yeah, the finesse of a _hammer_." He snorted, and shook his head. After a moment, he pulled himself completely onto the bed--lying down himself to encourage her sleepy mood. His second hand now freed, he reached over to touch her cheek gently. "I'm reserving veto rights on any doctor who comes barging in here while you sleep. Their best surgical consultant needs her rest, too."

He _would_ file a complaint, if they did not ease up. If that failed, he would complain above their heads. Just because he was injured did not mean he didn't still have contacts--if that were true, he doubted he'd be in this specific hospital at all.

She mumbled something incoherently dire that faded out as sleep sucked her under so quickly she was out in less than thirty seconds right there. Really, if she thought on it, she'd been fighting sleep with the tiny fleet of F-302s lounging on his nightstand, and barely clinging onto conversation as it was. Lam didn't even dream, much less move for the next four hours.

* * *

**  
I**t was eight months now since he'd first woken up in a red haze after the Antarctic battle. He was finally starting to get _comfortable_ here. That was probably a bad sign. But that he'd graduated to a cane was a _good_ sign. He'd made his way through the majority of SG-1's mission reports. Given that Doctor Carolyn was here, and had never been ushered out of the room, so that meant she had to have pretty high clearance. Whether she had enough to know about SG-1's missions was debatable, but he trusted that a doctor with her level of clearance would know better than to nose about a freshly delivered stack of "Top Secret" folders every day.

The hour of therapy was more like half a day of therapy now. Maybe that was just the monotony slowly creeping in. That was always possible.

"No, you can hand that report in tomorrow, Dr. Bartell," Lam said, pausing just outside of Mitchell's door. The portly doctor glanced down at her his voice low and she nodded. "Check his platelet count for me as well and I want to see those O2 stats up the next time I go on rounds. Get some rest where and when you can." She didn't _have_ to knock, but she did so anyway, and peered around the door frame before waggling a cup of Starbuck's at him.

"I come bearing caffeine," she said and her voice gave away the fact that she was probably running entirely on it herself.

He glanced up from the report he was scanning through, and offered a slim smile. She looked more animated than normal, but high strung enough, he half expected to hear her humming. They'd cut back on the excessive surgeries, after a few calls to the right people, but there were still emergencies that came up. This must have been one of those days.

"Is that for me or for you, Carolyn?"

"For you," she said, wandering in and placing the cup next to the bed. "If I have anymore, I'm pretty sure I'll code." Lam actually _meant_ that and drew in a few breaths to try and ease the jitter. "I'm technically off duty _now_, which is a relief. But it's going to take me awhile to come down." She shrugged her shoes off and sat on the other bed, her knees drawn to her chest. "We had about twenty things go wrong all at once and not enough hands, so I've been just _going_. But, hey, I've got two days off in a row starting tomorrow. Not at total loss."

She _was_ high strung. She was speaking more quickly than she usually did, and if he didn't know better, he might even have thought she were physically _vibrating_. He shook his head, eying the caffeine dubiously. He wasn't a big fan of Starbucks, really. He was just impressionable enough to prefer Folger's.

"Two days off is good." He offered a slim, amused smile. "D'you have big plans for them?"

"Not really," she said. "I'll be bored, most likely, and wind up back here. That's what usually happens on my days off." Lam wondered if sitting on her hands would do anything, but thought better of it. "I knew I shouldn't have had that eighth cup," she muttered under her breath.

He gestured for her to move across to a closer chair. "That sounds like the caffeine talking, Carolyn. How can the outside world be any more boring than this place?"

The same blue chair that was always there squeaked in protest as she sat down. It wobbled enough that she caught the nightstand irritably. Lam considered the question, then considering the outside world in conjunction with it. There were few things she enjoyed beyond her profession and most of that was her driven personality trying to attain new heights.

"We get our share of excitement here," she finally said, her words quick. "Of course, more _staff_ would be nice and then I might be _sane_. I can't remember the last time I went anywhere but back to my apartment. I guess you can blame that on me having an intensely Type A personality. I think I'd keel over if I didn't have something to work on."

He smile turned wry, and he reached over to run a knuckle along her forehead. "Sounds much more fun to be a doctor here than a patient. Its not much of a vacation if the lying around all day isn't in the sun." He shifted in his position on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. What about a restaurant? Tomorrow, I mean."

"If it's _quiet_," she mused, unconsciously leaning into his touch. She didn't even _think_ about it, but then she was effectively drugged at the moment. however one wanted to define it. "It's tough to find a place that you can carry on a decent conver--" Lam stopped and blinked at him. "I suppose going out would be a nice change."

For awhile, she thought about it and tried to breathe slowly, taking her time and allowing both adrenaline and the caffeine time to dissipate. Having a heart attack was not on her list of things she wanted to experience. The facility, state of the art though it was, needed to go hire a crapload of people so they weren't shorted again. But, Lam had to say, they'd done well enough with what they'd had. They only lost one man out of the good twenty that had come rolling in.

"Good then. Restaurant, tomorrow, your choice. My credit card this time." He grinned, and reached over to pull up her hand and press a light kiss to her palm. "I've got a bit of special good-behavior outside time saved up. Should help fight your boredom, Carolyn."

"Do you now?" she asked, laughing. "I'm pretty sure that will keep my attention for _hours_." There was a slight start as his lips brushed her palm (she was sure her nerves lit up like fireworks) and she tried to temper the smile. It, like virtually everything that went the opposite direction around Mitchell, failed. "It's about time they let you do something _normal_ anyway." She was still talking too fast, but trying to slow it made her feel like she was talking like one of those slow motion videos.

Oh. There. That was better.

"Guess perfect coffee turned into dinner? Lunch?" Not brunch. Late lunch was sort of dinner and she had to cut the rest of that train of thought off before she got lost in it. Her fingers slid over his wrist absently as she tilted her chin.

"Lunch would be a cop-out of a returned meal, Carolyn." He gave a half-chuckle, and reached out to tuck stray strands of hair over her shoulder. "Maybe it's best to wait for the perfect coffee after those fifteen cups are long out of your system. Otherwise you might get stuck in that bed over there for a few months. They're not as comfortable as they look."

"I know exactly how not-comfortable they are," she said with a shake of her head. It was chased by breathless and soundless laughter that was so stupidly unexpected that she wound up resting her forehead against the edge of the bed. Her words came out mumbled. "No more coffee," she said. "I think it'll be a coffee free two days."

Lam remembered those early days with startling clarity, and how she'd pulled more than a few back to back shifts with that hour nap in the best next to his. He was right, the beds weren't nearly as comfortable as they were supposed to be. She was not giggling. Not at all, because it wasn't amusing. This was stress, mostly. Stress, stress, stress, but it was slowly going away. Well, it would once she stopped cracking up over nothing.

He recognized the difference between genuine amusement and stress--especially in the doctor he'd had as a constant companion for nearly a year. He ran a hand through her hair in soothing sort of rhythm, and shrugged slightly. "Two days...at the least, Carolyn. Overdosing on caffeine isn't any fun--as I'm sure you well know." They were still running her too hard, but they did at least make an effort to employ enough doctors _not_ to run her into the ground. He gave a soft sigh, and rested his head on his arm, watching her giggle with a serene smile.

She was more than active enough for the both of them, this time.

Lam mumbled something of a response that faded in response to his hand against her hair. It hadn't been that non-stop emergency since Cameron had come in, and while she knew she'd done the best possible job she could do, she was still fighting the instinct to go back out there and _do_ something. The crisis was over and she let his easy touch convince her of that. It was far better than anything she could have found (and better than getting someone to sign her out something for anti-anxiety). The giggling stopped, finally, and she had to wipe at her eyes before curling her fingers against the blanket.

"We lost one," she said in a small voice. "But just one. We shouldn't have lost any."

He'd had a feeling that the tension had come from more than simply caffeine--he'd seen her fairly coffee'd-out before, during some of the crazier days at the hospital--and the loss of a patient matched what he knew of her perfectly well. He gave a soft frown, and leaned down to press a gentle, reassuring kiss to her hairline. "It's not your fault. You can't save everyone, Carolyn."

"I can _damn_ well try," she said, snapping the words out waspishly. She instantly regretted her tone and fell silent, her fingers wrinkling the blue blanket as her jaw clenched. Lam half shook her head and stilled, feeling awkward and foolish. After a moment, she forced herself to let her breath out. "It is what it is."

He continued to frown, and to run a hand along her hair. She'd snapped because she _cared_ about people, and it did not concern him in the least that he happened to be the most convenient target at that moment. "And you do try. That's what matters. The trying, and all the people you _have _saved. All the people living their lives because you were there. _That_'s what it is, Carolyn."

She carefully sat back up and offered him an exhausted, wobbly smile before curling her fingers against his arm. That's what it was. Lam let it out, let it all drain away until she was _fine_. It was a process she always went through, this letting go. It was never easy; all the 'could have' and 'should haves' that popped up worried at her with sharp little teeth. There came a moment where you had to release them, too. She said nothing in response and her slightly grim smile dissolved into something lighter that crinkled the corners of her eyes and warmed her face.

He made letting go easier. It was never easy, but he made it better.

* * *

**T**oday was the best day in over the year. It would doubtlessly go down in his records as one of his best days in his life. Therapy was done. He was _finally_ free to go home, and once the paperwork was processed, he would be joining SG-1. This was one of those turning points, at the end of a dark tunnel, where his life was about to change in _amazing_ ways. It was plenty evident in the way he grinned at the nurses he passed, while _jogging_ down the hallway.

He'd forgotten how amazing it felt to _run_. The trip from the office to the desk where they were storing his personal effects was shockingly brief. The receptionist there seemed amused, but unsurprised at his cheer. Clearly he was not the only one who found the hospital room akin to a sterile cell.

"Mitchell, Cameron." He smiled, and drummed his fingers along the counter. "Pickin' up my things and checkin' out."

"I've got it, Gracie," Lam murmured, flashing the mesh bag containing everything he'd had on him -- everything they hadn't destroyed _getting_ to him. She scribbled her signature down and initialed in the few million places before offering the clipboard for Mitchell's approval and signature as well. Gracie grinned and waved as Lam skirted around the corner and gestured in the direction of the elevator.

Her smile was radiant.

"I'll walk you out," she said, handing him the bag.

His grin was still partly breathless from the run to the desk, but it was brilliant all the same. "Carolyn, you cheated somehow to get here first, didn't you?" He grinned, and shrugged an arm around her shoulder. "As long as you promise to stick around and grab a hot dog before they drag you back into this place."

It was going to be strange, not having her constantly nearby, but he had a feeling he would be far too busy for that to really become much of an issue. Should it, he could always ask Gracie for Carolyn's home address.

"I'm a doctor, it's my prerogative to cheat in cases like this," she said, grinning as she half leaned into him. "I wish I could grab one, but I'm supposed to be on a plane in," she checked her watch, "an hour and a half. No, two hours. I was packing up all my crap last night after the phone call." Her fingers brushed against his arm as the elevator doors slid open. "I'm going back to McMurdo while my paperwork for another assignment is being processed."

Antarctica. There was one assignment he would not have been in a great hurry to make it to. Of course, Carolyn would do it well...but that did rule out visiting. He covered the brief flare of disappointment with an amused snort. "I don't know what kind of hot dogs you get, Carolyn, but where I come from, hot dogs from a cart down the street do not take _two hours_." He gave a wry smile. "It's not even raining. C'mon. One lunch for...luck. Old time's sake?"

"They don't," she said softly. "Pre-flight and check-in for that transport takes one hour." Her smile was soft. "I think I can sneak in a hotdog, though." The elevator doors closed and she realized she was staring. "I wouldn't mind the rain, though, for old time's sake." She forced herself to look elsewhere in order to manage the stab of emotion. It didn't have a name...it never did, but she was going to _miss_ his face.

He reached over to catch her jaw in a hand, and offered a soft smile. The reality and _practicality_ that he would not likely see this particular doctor again, once they finished the hot dog--and whatever other last minute excuses they came up with--was surprisingly harsh. It was as if he'd traded freedom for the loss of another friend.

"Hey, it's the right time of year. Maybe if we're lucky, there'll be a bit of rain after all. And I still count an hour of time for me to monopolize."

"It's all yours," she said minutely, her fingers falling against his chest. "It usually _was_ anyway." Amusement lit her features as she pulled away to punch the button for the street level. Seven floors. The elevator lurched and she shook her head. "I don't mind being monopolized by certain Air Force Colonels." She paused and blinked up at him, jaw tight.

"I suppose if I had been..." she waved limply, unable to finish.

He caught the wrist of the hand against his chest, and leaned his other arm on the wall of the elevator behind where she stood, frowning slightly. Of all the times to leave sentences hanging in the past year, this was not one of them. There was not likely to be a future conversation to clarify this one. Seven floors gave them enough time for at least a _proper _conversation. And then there would be hot dogs.

"If you'd been what?"

"If I'd been bothered by it," she murmured, "this elevator, you, all of this, would be irrelevant. I'm very glad I..." Her eyebrows arched slightly. "I wouldn't have traded the last year for any other place, I think." It came out in a very soft voice, but her eyes were steady, locked onto his, and her smile was a smooth curve. It was her hands that betrayed her and trembled.

The year had alternated between wonderful and hell. Those high points had been entirely Carolyn's doing. He offered her a genuine smile, and swept a thumb across her cheek. Those high points might just have made the rest worth it. "Wouldn't want to spend it anywhere else." Certainly not any other hospital with any other, objective doctor.

For her sake, before she got to rambling or awkwardness, he used his already established leverage to pull her into a kiss much less tentative--but equally rash--than the day in the rain. For goodbye, for old times sake, and perhaps just because he _wanted_ to.

She wasn't sure it was a kiss back. Lam wasn't sure if the raging heat she met him with qualified. It wasn't simple. It was her fingers buried in his hair, body tight up against his, breath stealing, elevator button squishing, _heat_. There had to be another word for it. The elevator floor dinged and she let out a frustrated cry that had her blindly trying to hold onto the moment. Because it _had_ to last. She had to make it last.

The frustration was entirely mutual. Not only would the moment be _gone_, but all seven floors would be wasted, if some random person came along and wanted to run down to the lobby for a snack. Seven floors that wouldn't be returning. Training--albeit not quite for the specific situation he found himself in--drew an irritated growl, and a blind snatch at the emergency stop button. The sudden jerk, rather than its customary lurching, confirmed that he--or perhaps she--had managed to stop the elevator before whatever hungry visitor would be given the opportunity to take the easy route to calories. Frankly, it was win-win.

To make up for the momentary distraction--and almost broken moment--he redoubled his efforts to match and outmatch the young doctor's fire. Today, she did not have him at the disadvantage that she did in the Spring. He used that leveled playing field to his full advantage, shifting his weight to push her back against the elevator wall, to better drag out the side of her he'd previously only known in the rain.

Her hands found his shoulder blades and her fingers caught the hem of his shirt, sweeping over the bare skin of his lower back as she tried, somehow, to pull him closer. It had been a very long time since she'd even thought about _this_. But God, there it was, the flare of desire, the stab of need that sent heat flooding through her as she kissed him long and hard and hungry.

If they were both going in opposite directions, she was going to let him know exactly how much she objected to all of it. She didn't want to break the kiss, not even for a second, and her fingers spread against the small of his back as she curved and curled around him.

Professionalism be damned.

Antarctica was, quite obviously, _extremely_ cold. It was his obligation as a good man and a former patient, to make up for some of that cold while he still had that opportunity. Hesitance had no place in this, as they'd both made clear. With no more elevator emergencies to interfere, and a fair shift in weight distribution, his hands were free to yank at buttons, tug at clothing, and pull the doctor closer. Someone would have to break the kiss and breathe properly sooner or later, but he had quite a while yet that he could deal with insufficient oxygen.

Especially when presented with the prospect of once more throwing Doctor Carolyn's professionalism to the wayside.

She was fairly certain that she'd never done anything like this in her entire life. This was not tame or refined, this was not John Hopkins either. This was fire and she was burning, _this_ was not being even remotely able to get enough of Cameron Mitchell, who she wasn't sure she'd ever see again. Soft protests were buried against his lips and broke as she kissed him with a ferocity that stunned her. She forgot and remembered the elevator in scattered moments between her fingers sliding delicately up his back to the way they settled low against his hips.

She forgot again as she clung to him, and remembered as she heard the _tic tic tic_ of the elevator car's cables. Lam was startled, just for a moment, at just how much she would have rather been in a room with a locked door and a-- She cut the thought off and broke the kiss long enough to breathe and stare and murmur something completely appropriate and most definitely unprofessional. The specifics didn't actually matter. Just the fact that somehow she had popped one of the buttons right off his shirt and wanted _more_.

Shirts could be replaced. Locks could be negotiated. McMurdo and SG-1...those didn't often cross paths--and he had a feeling those in charge would be hesitant to send him back there any time soon. There was all of half a moment in which he studied Carolyn, and considered the situation around them, before he shrugged out of the messed, damaged shirt, and pulled her once more close. Too long a break would encourage overthinking--and probably miss out on the entire lunch date. By his calculations, they would have barely made it a few floors by now, anyway. Probably.

Besides, he knew full well there were layers yet to be seen of Carolyn, and there were no other shared elevators--or convenient rooms--between the hospital and the jet to Antarctica.

There was absolutely no way that she could deny any of this, not when her hands were on his belt, and her lips were buried against his neck, and-- And then she looked up at the blinking red light of a very _active_ camera. A camera that was going to have a tape. She went still and leaned to whisper, her lips brushing his earlobe.

"Candid camera," she said very softly, "is going to kill us both."

Even through the haze of the moment, he knew there was something wrong when she suddenly _stopped_. And then of course, it was painfully obvious--and something he should have thought about, if he'd actually planned any of this. He gave a frustrated groan, and released his grip on her, sliding over to the nearby wall, to grab for the discarded shirt. What they might or might not do on their own time was their own business, but neither of them needed something caught _on camera_.

For the moment, he chose to sit--it encouraged better control, and frankly, the discovery of the camera was somewhat _depressing_.

"...Could break it."

Lam felt the cold textured elevator wall at her back and didn't even realized she'd _sat_ until he spoke. Her hands trembled, her breath came quick, her hair was disheveled, and her eyes drank him in, huge and dark. She actually contemplated it.

"It'd be worth it," she hissed softly, "except I'm pretty sure there'd be hefty fines involved and a few black marks on records." Lam drew a slow breath and absently smoothed her hair back. "We should...go get those hot dogs?" she murmured hoarsely.

It took every ounce of concentration to remain controlled. If he stood, if he looked too long at her disheveled state--or listened too well--he might do something dumb, that just might work, and and their professional careers would likely be permanently damaged. "Yeah. Hot dogs."

He shrugged his shirt back on, somewhat more mechanically than he had shrugged it _off_, before glancing over toward her once more. It was _maddening_ to imagine this was their last encounter--at least at that particular moment.

"Next time, Carolyn...no cameras."

"There'll be a next time," she said softly and stood before using her palm to release the emergency stop. "And there _won't_ be cameras."

* * *

**H**e was finally _here_. Inside Cheyenne Mountain, walking the corridors of Stargate Command. All of his professional years, his dedication and determination...it all led up to _this_ moment. Not just meeting and exchanging pleasantries with SG-1, but actually _joining_ the team that had taken down the System Lords. Learning from the best, becomng a real _part_ of the team, and one day having the honor and pride to call them friends.

Today, of course, had been taken up with briefings, last minute security checks, and an incredibly long-winded tour. Much as he appreciated knowing where things were, he'd never read any report cautioning against getting the Head Gate Technician going. It was stunning how much trivia the little man could get into one sentence. It was also a waste of both of their time, because there was no way he was going to remember every level of the complex on his first day.

The tour was winding down, now. There was just a cursory glance in the Infirmary--as he'd had his physical done before getting on base--the mess, and a trip to the Gateroom _itself_, before his briefing with the General.

Chief Sergeant Walter seemed to be aware that the tour was winding down, as well, as he'd picked up his pace. In fact, the Infirmary would have been just a brief gesture and profile, of Cameron hadn't heard a familiar voice in the room. He pointed, asking the smaller man to hold up for a moment, and ducked his head into the room to investigate.

"I'm serious, you do that again and you'll put yourself out for a _week_," Lam said, frowning at a lanky major who had an SG-17 patch on the jacket he was tugging back on. "And I don't care _what_ they were firing at you." Her fingers left the man's obviously swollen elbow and she wrote a few quick notes before muttering under her breath. "Table tennis? You've got to be joking..."

The major grinned.

"Extreme table tennis," he said as if he'd just single-handedly delivered someone's _baby_.

She fitted him for an elbow brace dubiously and reached blindly for her tablet, frowned, and _froze._ It took her half a second to cover the lack of graces.

"Colonel," she said quietly, shoving her hands into her pockets to cover up the way they trembled just that little bit. Her smile was in her eyes though and Walter was peering at her curiously.

For a few brief moments, he did actually grin. And then Walter was listing off the important points of the Infirmary. Shifts, post-mission physicals, and senior staff. By the time the doctor had finished her treatment of the man, his expression had smoothed to something more professional.

He sidled into the room, holding the absurd dress hat at his side, and offering a small smile. "Doctor. Chief of Stargate Command's medical?"

"I had a little waiting to do before I assumed command," she said and had to sit on the nearest stool, her hands still jammed into her pockets. "Red tape, apparently." Her smile flickered across her lips. "The medical division at McMurdo wanted to keep me for an extra six months."

Her eyes were busy studying him; the way he stood, his balance, the set of his shoulders, and the familiarity of his presence seemed to fill up a corner of her she hadn't realized was _empty_. She tensed and forced herself to relax as Walter cleared his throat.

"SG-1," she said, the smile back. "Congratulations."

He smiled and nodded. The prerogative of being Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell, rather than Patient Mitchell, was that Chief Sergeant Harriman, for all of his prompting, would have to wait on _his_ judgment, not the other way around. Of course, the General's orders meant that there still wasn't much time he could stall.

"Looks like we're both livin' the dream." He allowed a warmer smile at that. It was more than a little surreal--he'd finally gotten used to the idea only a few months before, that his constant companion of before would very likely never cross paths with him again. Now...she was his CMO.

He gestured over his shoulder, still not looking away from the doctor. "I've gotta keep up with the tour guide, but...we should catch up. Lunch at the mess? Just to update."

"I think I can free some time up for lunch," Lam said crisply. "I hear there's blue Jell-O today."

"Maybe they're saving some red in the back." He offered a sharply professional smile, and offered a hand out with a nod. "I'll be by when they serve lunch."

"That sounds like a plan, Colonel," she stood to take his offered hand and tried not to linger any longer than was _professional_, but there might have been a slight delay. "The food's better than I thought it would be." It was not Sailbury steak for lunch and she couldn't remember _what_ it was. She was too busy trying to figure out who needed what and when.

"Doctor Lam?" a nurse called. She turned and held up a finger.

"Work calls," she said wryly. Didn't it always?

The warmth of her hand remained longer than was strictly reasonable, given the decent temperature of the base. He returned her comment with a wry smile and another nod. "As always. See you at lunch, Doctor Lam."

It didn't sound nearly as nice as Carolyn, but if there was dissatisfaction in his expression, it passed quickly, and he turned to walk out after Harriman before either of them could come up was an excuse to delay their itineraries any further.

Harriman fell into step after only a moment, and launched back into his show of trivia. Replacement nurses, temporaries, ex-active duty scientists. That, and the Chief of Medical, Doctor Carolyn Lam, was the current Head of Stargate Command's daughter.


End file.
